by James Mace
“He has,” Aula replied. “I just happened to arrive when he was holding a private meeting within the Temple of Apollo. Only Flavius Sabinus, Silius Italicus, and Cluvius Rufus were there.”
“A strange group for a meeting of this magnitude,” Lupus thought aloud.
“Sabinus is Vespasian’s brother, as well as the city prefect,” Primus noted. “I don’t know Rufus’ role. I have never met him. But I do know that Italicus, besides being a recent consul and rather influential member of the senate, is one of the few true friends Vitellius has. What all did they say?”
“They acknowledged that it is finished, but Vitellius said he will need to set his affairs in order, so that there may be a peaceful transfer of power. He will lay down his authority at the Temple of Concord, where he intends to give the imperial signet to Flavius Sabinus.”
“Do you think he’s stalling for time?” Legate Lupus asked.
“I doubt it,” Primus said, shaking his head. He sighed impatiently. “The strategic game between Vespasian and Vitellius may be over, but now it is the smaller one that must be played.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“A game of power between allies,” the general replied candidly. “Vespasian has named me regent, with the assumption that I capture Rome before Mucianus arrives.”
“I thought you didn’t want the regency?” a legate asked.
“Oh, I don’t, at least not the responsibility that comes with it. What sucks a pile of horse shit is that Vitellius intends to hand the imperial signet over to Sabinus. I won this damned war. He sat on his ass in Rome. And Mucianus took his sweet time, extorting every major city within the eastern empire, enriching himself in the process, while marching at a fucking tortoise’s pace! Now the senate will name Sabinus as regent, simply because he’s Vespasian’s brother. Once Mucianus arrives in Rome, I’ll be cast aside and sent back to the Danube without so much as a bloody ‘thank you’ from either of them.”
For a triumphant general, there was a great deal of bitterness in Primus’ voice. He slammed his fist on the table in frustration. He knew his outburst was rather unbecoming, and he took a brief moment to compose his thoughts. “Forgive me, my friends. Like many of you, I have scarcely slept in weeks. I should be glad of these tidings. The war will finally be over, without bloodshed in the imperial capital.”
“Perhaps we should all get some sleep,” Lupus said, standing up from his couch and yawning.
“Yes,” the commander-in-chief replied, with a yawn of his own. “I’ve already dispatched a pair of spies into the city. Come the morrow, I expect they will have returned to let us know Vitellius has abdicated, with Sabinus as Regent of the Empire until Emperor Vespasian arrives.”
He dismissed his officers, but asked Aula to stay for a few minutes.
“You think I’m selfish,” Primus said. “It’s alright for you to say so. Firstly, because you are my social peer, and secondly, because it’s true.”
“I understand that all generals use war as a means of making their fortunes,” Aula replied evasively.
“Absolutely,” Primus concurred. “Regrettably, not this time; at least not for the men who bled during this wretched campaign. It was my soldiers who fought and died, deposing the usurper. It is Mucianus who will reap all the benefits.”
“You two have a strange friendship, I must say.”
“Politics and war make for the most unusual bonds,” the general noted. “If I’m being honest, Mucianus and I were at first only joined by our mutual loyalty towards Vespasian. Even those two were only allies of necessity for the longest time. I think it was perhaps within the past year or so that their rather cold rapport with each other became something one could describe as friendly. Mucianus and I like and despise each other in equal measure, I think. Even Vespasian and Sabinus, brothers separated by scarcely a year in age, have never been what one would describe as ‘close’.”
“I know,” Aula replied, taking a sip of wine. “I think Sabinus loves his brother in his own way. Though I will admit, I think the only time they have shared mutual affinity towards one another was during the Conquest of Britannia.”
“When both are commanding legions, they work surprisingly well together,” Primus observed. “They are able to put their collective egos aside. Each knows very much how the other thinks. However, that was a long time ago; twenty-seven years since the Flavian brothers last bloodied their swords together in battle. Forgive me, for I know you are very close to Sabinus, but I cannot help wondering if there is a measure of envy towards his brother. After all, he is the elder Flavian and should be head of the family. He also had to financially prop up Vespasian on more than one occasion, which I’m certain was a source of embarrassment for him. And now, it is Vespasian and not Sabinus who is Emperor of Rome. I wonder how he will handle serving as regent to his younger brother.”
“It is unusual,” Aula concurred.
Primus then added, “Whatever opportunities I may have lost, at least Vitellius intends to abdicate, which will save numerous Roman lives.”
“That’s a very noble observation,” Aula said, with a trace of sarcasm.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Primus chuckled. “If compelled to attack the capital, I’ll end up taking a large portion of the blame for the destruction, regardless of provocation from our enemies. I wonder if Mucianus deliberately delays since he knows Vitellius is beaten, and he has me to shoulder the blame for everything that goes wrong.”
Primus’ eyes were growing heavy. Aula decided to take her leave.
Her small tent was near the principia. As she sat on her small cot, removing her sandals and her tunic, she was suddenly very tired. The camp was still alive with activity, though it was slowing as the darkness enveloped them. A light rain sprinkled on Aula’s tent as she tied the flap closed. A small oil lamp sat on the table near her camp bed. She took her father’s spatha and smiled as the glow of lamp flickered off the brass artwork of the scabbard. She set the weapon next to her cot, pulled the heavy blankets over her, and slept a deeper sleep than she had since before she left Judea.
The nighttime rains left a glistening sheen on the stone streets of the Eternal City. And though many had reveled in the first night of Saturnalia, the morning brought a somber mood to the capital. The city criers announced that all official observances for the day were to be delayed or cancelled altogether. The emperor was calling for a public meeting in the Forum with some very important announcements regarding the future of Rome. Crowds gathered, mostly those whose loyalties lay with Vitellius. Many of these were members of the newly raised People’s Army, hoping their emperor was coming to lead them in the final battle against Vespasian’s legions.
An ominous horn blow heralded the emperor’s approach. The people first thought to cheer, but were suddenly silenced by the somber procession. Praetorian guardsmen cleared the path and walked on either side of the column. Vitellius walked at the head, dressed in black mourning garb, and devoid of the laurels of his office. His son, Germanicus, also dressed in black, was carried in a litter next to his father. The boy’s mother, Empress Galeria, walked on the other side of the litter, clutching the boy’s hand. Their son-in-law, Valerius Asiaticus, walked beside the emperor, wearing the armor of an imperial legate. Only Vitellius’ heavily pregnant daughter, Vitellia, was absent. At first, one might assume the family was dressed in mourning for the emperor’s mother, Sextilia. However, she had been cremated and sent to the gods in a very private ceremony not long after her passing. And there would be no need for the entire household to accompany them. At least a hundred slaves and freedmen walked behind the imperial family. All who witnessed the spectacle knew something boded ill for Vitellius and for Rome.
Despite being crammed with upwards of ten thousand spectators, the Forum was eerily quiet. The procession made its way to the base of the steps leading up to Capitoline Hill, where Consul Simplex awaited them. His colleague, Atticus, was conspicuously absent. Flavius Sabinus had also de
clined to attend. He felt his presence would be in poor taste, and he did not know how the crowds would react.
“People of Rome,” Vitellius said, his arms held open wide. His signet ring was held in one hand, and the emperor’s ceremonial gladius in the other. “I have come to say farewell. Fortune and the gods have forsaken us in favor of our enemies. I am renouncing my claim to the imperial throne, for the sake of peace and the lives of our people!”
“No!” a voice shouted.
“You cannot abandon us, sire, not now!”
“Please, hear me out, I beg of you!” Vitellius pleaded. “As I have been your father, so are all of you my beloved sons and daughters. My life is not worth the sacrifice of any one of you. And I implore you to show pity on my wife—your empress mother—my dear brother, as well as my children who are blameless of any crime. Because I love Rome more than I love my own life, I will not allow her to fall victim to our enemy’s bloodlust. By my abdication, Rome shall be spared.”
There were further grumblings and shouts of protest from the crowd who, though sympathetic, were unmoved by the emperor’s speech. Wishing to finish the proceedings and be done with it, Vitellius approached Consul Simplex.
“Gnaeus,” he said, addressing the consul by his given name. “I am giving you the emperor’s signet and gladius. They are to be entrusted to Flavius Sabinus until such time as… Emperor Vespasian, arrives in the capital.”
“I cannot accept these,” Simplex said, folding his arms across his chest.
“The Guard is still loyal to you, sire!” Prefect Varus said, walking over quickly. His face was red with anger. Neither he nor the consuls had been given any prior knowledge of Vitellius’ intent to abdicate. All felt betrayed by the emperor’s actions, as did the people who witnessed the spectacle. “They will stand with you to the death. You owe it to them to continue fighting!”
“And we are with you, Caesar!” a man in the crowd shouted. “Vespasian will never be emperor, not so long as we draw breath!”
Distraught at what he had not foreseen, Vitellius thought to climb the Gemonian Stairs and leave the signet ring and gladius within the Temple of Concord. Instead, the mob refused to allow him to pass. The praetorians were not about to clear the way, just so their emperor could surrender without a fight. As he looked frantically around the Forum, every means of approaching the hill was blocked off. Only the path back to the palace was still open.
“Take my wife and son to my mother’s villa,” he ordered one of the guardsmen. “I will retire to the palace.”
Though sorrowful when he approached the Forum, Vitellius had felt a sense of relief, the crisis was supposed to be at an end. Now, with the people and the Guard refusing to allow him to abdicate, he suddenly feared the worst.
At the same time as Vitellius approached the Forum, a large entourage made its way to the home of Flavius Sabinus. They consisted of the three urban cohorts that remained within the city. Thought to be staunch Vitellian loyalists, all had declared for Vespasian that morning. They came to demand that their prefect lead them to seize the throne for the Rome’s rightful Caesar. Though primarily a firefighting and police force, on this day they were equipped for battle. Each man wore hamata chain mail with a bronze helmet. Their shields were similar to the rectangular legionary scutum, though about half the size. They each carried a long stabbing spear with a wide blade, along with a gladius on their hip.
At the cohorts’ head rode the venerable Suetonius Paulinus. For the first time since the war between Otho and Vitellius, he was armed for battle. He was joined by Consul Quintius Atticus, though he was unarmed and still in his formal toga. Unlike his colleague, Simplex, he wished for the war to end peacefully and was, therefore, ready to offer his assistance to Vespasian’s brother.
“Paulinus, what is happening?” Sabinus asked, as he stepped out onto the steps leading into his manor house. “Why are you dressed for battle?”
“A precautionary measure,” the old general asserted. “I recommend you knock the dust off your armor, as well.”
“The urban cohorts are at your command,” Consul Atticus added. “Vitellius is poised to lay down the imperial signet ring at the Temple of Concord. The senate is ready to accept you as Vespasian’s regent. It would be best if you spoke directly to the people.”
“There may be resistance,” Paulinus warned. “Which is why we’ve rallied the urban cohorts.”
A centurion named Cornelius Martialis stepped forward. “Sir, I took the liberty of opening the armories for our men. We hope the transfer of power is peaceful but best not to take chances.”
“I am with you, too,” another voice said.
At first Sabinus did not recognize the man. Once he removed his helmet, the prefect’s mouth cocked into a half grin.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “Tribune Pacensis.”
“Former tribune, sir,” the man replied. “I am here to fight for Vespasian and atone for my past crimes.”
The ‘crimes’ he referred to took place during Otho’s ill-fated maritime expedition during the spring and summer. Aemilius Pacensis had once commanded an urban cohort under Sabinus. Notorious for his drunkeness and mean behavior, he had proven incompetent as commander of the expedition. He was promptly overthrown by a mutiny within his own ranks and sacked by Sabinus upon his return to Rome. The prefect had not seen the disgraced tribune since. He looked better than Sabinus ever remembered. He was both sober and ready to do his duty.
“I ask for no command, sir,” Pacensis emphasized. “Just let me fight by your side!”
“Yes,” Sabinus said, his mind filled with conflicting emotions. “I think…it is time I donned my armor.”
Chapter XXIX: In the Shadow of the Gods
Rome
18 December 69 A.D.
Capitoline Hill
Though slightly rounder and much softer than when he’d served as legate of Legio IX, Hispania, during the Conquest of Britannia, his armor still fit. The leather subarmalis that went underneath the metal cuirass was old and well-worn. The white accents on the shoulder straps were cracking in places. The muscled cuirass itself was almost as old as he was and had seen many battles. The decorative designs were far simpler than most, consisting of a series of bronze leaves over the torso with an ornate circular disc over the chest.
Flavius Sabinus found himself assailed by conflicting feelings. It was not the potential danger that troubled him. He had faced death on many occasions during his tenure with the legions. At sixty-one years of age, he had lived a full life. Yet it was that age difference between he and Vespasian that troubled him greatly. Not something as demeaning as petty jealousy, but rather a deep-seated tradition that went back to the beginning of civilization. Rome was a very patriarchal society where the eldest male ruled over the family. Sabinus was the eldest living member of the Flavian clan. It went against all sense of tradition that he would, in any way, be subservient to his younger sibling.
“We’re ready whenever you are,” Paulinus said, as he joined Sabinus in the foyer.
“Tell me something, Suetonius,” the city prefect replied. “How would you feel if it were your younger brother who was poised to become emperor?”
“I’ve never given it any thought,” Paulinus remarked. He then understood. “You are the elder brother, and therefore should be head of the Flavian house. Yet, you cannot be head of your own household if Vespasian is emperor.”
“I doubt my brother has any intention of having a co-ruler,” Sabinus conjectured. “Even if he does, it will be his eldest son rather than his older brother.”
“No disrespect, old friend, but isn’t it a little late in the game to make an issue of you being the elder brother? Does this go against what is deemed proper? Perhaps. But it was Vespasian, the man, who was named Emperor of Rome, not the House of the Flavians.”
Sabinus turned to face him. A slave slung his sword baldric over his shoulder, while another handed him his dusty legate’s helm with its faded black p
lume.
“I couldn’t exactly assert any sort of rights over my brother while Vitellius still held firm to the imperial throne,” he observed. “I’ve had to remain loyal to the emperor that is here in Rome or at least remain neutral. But you are right, my friend. It was Vespasian who the eastern legions proclaimed Caesar, not Sabinus. And it is they who have won this war. So I must do their bidding, as well as that of the senate, and be a good and loyal subject of my brother.”
As the two generals stepped onto the street, they were greeted with a voracious cheer from the urban cohorts. The men had been quick to forgive Tribune Pacensis and insisted he lead one of the cohorts on what they felt would be a glorious day. Though fully armed and kitted up, none of the men anticipated anything outside of a few rioters who were still loyal to Vitellius.
The first cohort under Centurion Cornelius took the lead. They marched ten men abreast, spears shouldered. Sabinus and Paulinus followed on horseback with the remaining cohorts behind them. Pacensis commanded the rear-guard as the procession made its way towards the Forum.
“Just think,” Paulinus said, with a grin. “Today we turn the page of history.”
Sabinus matched this with a nervous smile of his own.
They wound their way along the city streets. This district housed a large number of senators and wealthy equites. A handful of their peers soon joined them.
“I thought you would have already been at the Forum,” Paulinus said, as they were joined by his former colleague in Otho’s army, Marius Celsus.
Not having a horse readily available, he walked beside his friend. “I heard Vitellius planned on giving a riveting speech before surrendering his laurels.”
“Yes,” Celsus replied. “He’s likely already given it. I knew the whole spectacle would be rather undignified, and so I decided it would be better to march with the new emperor’s regent.”
